


Keeping Count

by ClaraxBarton



Category: Captain America - All Media Types, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: AmeriHawk, BAMF Clint Barton, Bucky Barnes & Steve Rogers Friendship, Captain America - Freeform, Clothing Porn, Hawkeye - Freeform, M/M, kind of, natasha and clint bromance of the ages, who doesn't want to have Natasha reading one of the best socialist novels to them in Russian?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-29
Updated: 2018-08-29
Packaged: 2019-07-04 03:52:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,915
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15833202
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ClaraxBarton/pseuds/ClaraxBarton
Summary: “Twenty-four,” Clint calls out.It’s eight days later, and Clint is working out in the gym with Natasha.Working out is the term Clint likes to use when Natasha is beating the stuffing out of him during their set-in-stone, much mythologized sparring sessions.Steve has just entered the gym, dressed and ready to warm up for his scheduled work-out - with Bucky, who refuses to spar with anyone else except for Natasha, and only then if she is in a truly awful mood and needs to work out her frustrations on someone less likely to actually suffer injury than Clint is.Steve stretches and waits for Natasha to pin Clint to the mat before responding.“Seventeen.”Clint gives him a triumphant smirk, and then groans when Natasha’s knee slips.





	Keeping Count

**Author's Note:**

> All the thanks to Ro, my amazing beta reader, and to CB for the encouragement and the generally being awesome.  
> You two are the best and I deserve neither of you and still don't know how I got lucky enough to get BOTH of you.

**Keeping Count**

  
  


Steve is pulling on a sweater as he walks into the kitchen.

 

Clint is the only occupant, already dressed in jeans, thermal shirt and an open flannel shirt, and slumped over a cup of coffee that is, Steve is willing to bet, not his first of the day.

 

Despite that, Clint looks half-asleep and two-hundred percent done with a day that has only just started, and Steve doesn’t know whether to be amused or exasperated or sympathetic to the fact that Clint only has two modes -  _ nope _ or  _ hell yes _ . 

 

Mornings are invariably a  _ nope _ scenario until Clint has had enough caffeine, or the world has sufficiently gone to hell for him to rouse himself.

 

Steve walks past Clint’s sprawled form at the kitchen bar counter and pours himself a cup of coffee.

 

“‘S only almond milk left,” Clint mutters, voice muffled by his sleeve and still gravely from sleep.

 

Steve sighs. He doesn’t care for milk that isn’t dairy, has listened to far too many dissertations on the subject from Tony, and stupidly clings to the bit of nostalgia that he can when he uses organic whole milk. It is the closest to home he can get without moving to upstate New York and buying a dairy farm.

 

“Almond milk won’t be so bad, just don’t put in as much sugar,” Clint offers, lifting his head enough to prop his chin on his forearm and watch as Steve prepares the cup.

 

Steve puts in half of his normal amount of sugar, but just as much of the almond milk as he would use for dairy, and takes a cautious sip.

 

Clint is right. It’s not so bad. It’s just not so good, either. 

 

Still, Steve has put up with far worse than a cup of coffee with  _ almond milk _ in it.

 

He leans against the counter, and can’t help his smile as he watches Clint put an almost monumental effort into propping himself up on one elbow and drinking from his own cup.

 

“Seven,” Clint says after a few sips.

 

Steve lifts his eyebrows.

 

“Seven? Huh.”

 

“You?” Clint asks.

 

Steve shrugs one shoulder.

 

“Thirteen.”

 

Clint snorts, though whether it’s in amusement, derision or disbelief, Steve doesn’t know.

 

He doesn’t get to ask, either, because in the next moment, the  _ Mission Alert _ klaxon goes off and both he and Clint are scrambling for their gear, coffee and sleep and all else forgotten as they turn their attention to the threat ahead.

 

-o-

 

“Twenty-four,” Clint calls out.

 

It’s eight days later, and Clint is working out in the gym with Natasha.

 

_ Working out _ is the term Clint likes to use when Natasha is beating the stuffing out of him during their set-in-stone, much mythologized sparring sessions. 

 

Steve has just entered the gym, dressed and ready to warm up for his scheduled  _ work-out _ \- with Bucky, who refuses to spar with anyone else except for Natasha, and only then if she is in a truly awful mood and needs to work out her frustrations on someone less likely to actually suffer injury than Clint is.

 

Steve stretches and waits for Natasha to pin Clint to the mat before responding.

 

“Seventeen.”

 

Clint gives him a triumphant smirk, and then groans when Natasha’s knee  _ slips _ .

 

-o-

 

The reality of being an Avenger isn’t just that  _ vacation _ isn’t a concept. It’s not just about being on-call at all times.

 

It’s the knowledge that at any moment, any one of them could be injured, could be kidnapped or brainwashed or worse. 

 

The thing about defending Earth is that they are the frontline between humanity and the truly twisted beings of the universe who see the fleshy bipedal occupants of Earth as pawns to be used accordingly.

 

And the frontline is usually the one that goes down hard in a full-frontal assault.

 

Clint, still always only able to operate at  _ nope _ or  _ hell yes _ , somehow manages to bear the brunt of those assaults, despite the fact that he is the only unenhanced - either physiologically or technologically - member of the team.

 

The mission that Clint comes out of with no injuries is only a mission that doesn’t include him.

 

Clint has spent so much time in the Avengers medical wing that Tony has decided, with no irony, to name it the  _ Barton Wing _ , and Clint has convinced the nurses to convince the facilities guys to repaint his usual room a soft, lavender shade that is somehow way more peaceful than any other room color.

 

The latest mission had been rough. Not just for Clint, but for the team as a whole. Wanda had been taken down. Bucky, too. But after two days, they had both been released from medical, and now it is only Clint, lying in his lavender room, face a mottled mess of colors and right arm and shoulder wrapped in bandages, who is still recovering.

 

Natasha is already in Clint’s room when Steve comes by. She is sitting in a chair pulled close to the bed, and she is reading to Clint in Russian.

 

The cover of the book is hard to make out, and Steve’s Russian has never been great, but he manages to translate it in his head.

 

_ The Slynx _ .

 

He doesn’t know the book, and Natasha’s Russian, higher-pitched and more expressive than her English, has Steve stopping in the door to listen for several moments before she stops.

 

“Shift change?” she asks, and there are shadows under her eyes.

 

Steve nods, and she rises, wincing and stretching as she does.

 

Natasha bends over Clint and presses a soft, barely-there kiss to the least bruised area of Clint’s head, and then puts the book down on the nightstand beside his bed.

 

As she walks past Steve, Natasha puts her hand on his arm. Steve covers it with his own, much-larger hand.

 

“He’s still in and out,” she tells him. “He was lucid for almost five minutes a while ago.” Her lips twitch into an expression that is almost a smile. “He kept asking me if anyone looked into whether or not he set a world record by getting thrown through six buildings in one fight and living through it.”

 

Steve rolls his eyes and squeezes Natasha’s hand.

 

She stands on the tips of her toes to press a kiss to his cheek, and then she is gone.

 

Steve takes her abandoned seat, but he doesn’t pick up the book she has left behind.

 

Instead, Steve pulls the chair even closer, and he studies the man on the bed, watches the soft but steady rise and fall of his chest and the faint flutter of his pulse under the skin at his neck and wrist.

 

Times passes, and Steve isn’t sure how much has before Clint’s eyes slowly blink open.

 

He meets Steve’s weary gaze, and offers a soft, painful-looking curl of his lips.

 

“Hey,” Steve says, and almost reaches for Clint’s hand but manages to stop himself from crushing the broken bones of his right hand a second time.

 

“Hey,” Clint responds, groggy and slow and clearly in pain. “Hey,” he says again.

 

“Hey,” Steve repeats, and wonders if he should be worried.

 

“Three,” Clint says, lips curling even more when Steve lets out a shocked laugh.

 

“Three? You just woke up.”

 

“I know. Gimme a minute.”

 

Steve huffs.

 

“No. You should be resting.”

 

“No rest for the wicked, Steve, you know that.”

 

Steve knows it. Too well, but probably not as well as Clint.

 

“You?” Clint asks after a moment.

 

“Me, what?”

 

Clint waggles his eyebrows, an impressive feat since one of them is half burned off and the other is hard to see under the swelling from the worst of his black eyes.

 

“Eighty-seven,” Steve confesses.

 

Clint looks ready to call him on it, but he sees the look in Steve’s eyes.

 

“Sounds about right,” Clint sighs instead.

 

His eyes slip closed, and a moment later, his breathing has evened out.

 

Steve leans back in his chair and keeps watch.

 

-o-

 

Bucky is, surprisingly, the one who most enjoys - actually  _ enjoys _ \- attending Tony’s charity gala events where he shows off the Avengers like pigs trotted out at a county fair for judgement before slaughtering.

 

It’s Clint’s analogy. Steve has never been to a county fair, and he’s pretty sure Clint might not have either - he really doesn’t think that the pigs get their prizes and then are immediately let to an abattoir. But, again, he’s never been to one.

 

Bucky likes them, though, and that’s enough to make Steve put a lid on his most vocal complaints. Sometimes, though, it feels too much like when he was forced to stump for war bonds, before he was able to fight. Before he had found Bucky again.

 

It’s times like that, times when watching Bucky and Natasha dance, faces carefully neutral except for the sparkle in their eyes that even they can’t hide, that Steve quietly slips away and finds the quickest way to the roof of whatever building they are in and hides for as long as he can.

 

At least this event is still in New York. At least Thor is on-planet and able to entertain nearly half the ballroom with his booming voice and tales of his exploits. Tony and Pepper and Sam do a good job of charming the rest of the room. Wanda and Pietro and Vision are usually supervised by Bruce or Rhodes, occasionally both, and there have only been three events over the last four years that have had an abrupt end because anyone got out of line.

 

Twice, it was Steve who was out of line - though he will contest that until the day he dies, because  _ how _ was he the one who was out of line when the other guy was suggesting that a little genocide could be good for the planet, or the other other guy, who kept talking about Maria Hill like she was one of those blue ribbon livestock Clint sardonically compared them to.

 

Of course, Clint was the other one who was out of line, shocking precisely no one. They didn’t talk about that incident, because it left even Tony speechless, and Clint was already his own worst critic.

 

Clint was also the one most likely to fetch Steve from his hiding places, when it was time to leave or when it was time to show his face, or when Clint gave up on the event himself and sought out Steve under the pretext of  _ fetching _ him.

 

Steve is standing on the roof, hands in the trouser pockets of the outrageously - he has to assume - expensive Versace tuxedo that Tony had shoved into his hands earlier that day.

 

Steve understands costumes, understands theatrics, and he understands a  _ lot _ . But it doesn’t mean he appreciates them.

 

And yeah, Clint’s metaphor of the livestock is apt. Regardless of where the abattoir is in the process - the next stop or the final stop in a few months - the livestock are headed there no matter how many ribbons they’ve won.

 

Each gala, each press conference - sometimes, each  _ day _ \- is a reminder to Steve that he doesn’t belong, that none of the Avengers really do, and that their days are numbered.

 

“Forty-five.”

 

Steve turns at the sound of Clint’s voice. He had heard the access door open, had heard the crunch of gravel under a foot, and known immediately it would be Clint.

 

Clint is dressed up to the nines as well, and as much as he might play at being uncomfortable, at hating his  _ monkey suit _ and is almost always somehow half out of his clothes before they are even back at the Tower after these events, he looks comfortable and confident as he strides across the roof to join Steve at the edge.

 

“Fifty-nine,” Steve says as Clint stands close enough for their shoulders to bump together.

 

Steve is three inches taller and forty pounds heavier than Clint, and despite the fact that he could, in the right circumstances, kill Clint, he has never felt too large or out of place or unwelcome in Clint’s presence.

 

Steve has always been too much - too much fight, too much sickness, too much sass, too  _ much _ \- and the serum has only made it worse. 

 

Clint disagrees, vehemently, and it’s one of the reasons why he is the one who always fetches Steve.

 

The other reason is because Bucky actually  _ likes _ these things, because it’s the one time the public doesn’t expect him to kill again, and Steve would never, ever begrudge him that.

 

“So, apparently they’re doing these toasts in half an hour,” Clint says, and Steve groans. The event has already been underway for two hours - how much longer is this going to  _ last _ ? “And then,” Clint smirks, the asshole, “there’s a scholarship presentation. And then photos. And Tony was talking to that reporter from the  _ Times _ \- the one you hate so much? And-”

 

“Which one?” Steve grouses, because for the life of him, he can’t narrow it down to  _ one _ reporter at the  _ Times _ that he hates.

 

“And then the Mayor wanted-”

 

“Jesus Christ,  _ no _ !” Steve has to say. “This is ridiculous! We  _ just _ got back from spending thirty-six hours crawling through caves in the Himalayas, chasing terrorists with Chitauri weapons. I am  _ not _ spending the rest of my life here, in this damn suit!”

 

Clint raises a single eyebrow, letting Steve have his snit and looking only the slightest bit judgemental.

 

“Well,” Clint drawls, “I figured. That’s why I told Tony that you and I were going to head out to take care of a mafia thing.”

 

“What mafia thing?”

 

Clint shrugs.

 

“Dunno. But I think Marco and Gina over at Dino’s pizza - they could maybe, probably, right? - know someone in the mafia. And isn’t it our duty, as Earth’s  _ mightiest _ defenders, to follow up on that possible lead? Make sure Dino’s pizza is safe for the rest of the city? For the rest of the  _ planet _ ?”

 

Steve laughs, relieved and amused and-

 

“Hey, Clint?”

 

“Hey, Steve?”

 

“Sixty-four.”

 

Clint huffs, but then he smirks.

 

“Seventy-two.”

 

Steve thinks about calling him on it, but Clint’s expression is entirely serious.

 

-o-

 

“Ninety-two,” Steve pants.

 

He is sweaty, his body is still in that in-between place, adrenaline coursing through his body and leaving him nervy and jittery, but the mission is over and it was a success and it was  _ clean, _ and Steve hasn’t come down from the battle-high yet, and he doesn’t have self-recrimination to pull him down into a nosedive either.

 

“Yeah?” Clint grins, the expression fierce, a little wild, and he’s still caught up in it too, riding the same high, and the cut on his forehead had stopped bleeding an hour ago but there is still a smear of crimson, a streak of it in his fair hair, and it makes him look… not unhinged, but not entirely in his right mind either.

 

“Yeah,” Steve insists.

 

Clint’s grin turns damn near savage.

 

_ Feral _ . That was the word Steve was trying for.

 

Clint looks feral with the blood in his hair and his chest rising and falling in harsh breaths.

 

Steve stands his ground, watches as Clint pulls off his fingerless gloves, his wrist guards, the Kevlar vest that Natasha had forced on him last year when they almost hadn’t gotten Clint to Dr. Cho’s cradle in time to save his life.

 

“One hundred and thirty-five,” Clint says, his voice the calmest it has been all day, since even before the call came in and they had to suit up and head to Malaysia to somehow talk a terrorist organization into  _ not _ murdering three-hundred hostages.

 

Steve snorts, not buying  _ that _ number at all.

 

Clint pulls his shirt off, practically peeling the slick fabric free from his sculpted torso and huge biceps. 

 

Steve is relieved to see that there is no damage, no wounds that had been hiding out of sight.

 

“I’m serious, Steve,” Clint says as he toes off his boots and reaches for the fly of his black tactical pants.

 

“We were on a  _ mission _ , Clint,” Steve reminds him.

 

“Yeah. I remember.” Clint frees the button and starts on the zipper.

 

“You  _ really _ expect me to believe that you thought about having sex with me one hundred and thirty-five times while we were  _ on a mission _ ?”

 

Feral is exactly the look.

 

Clint’s grin is a thing that feels alive with promise, lost only when he finally kisses Steve.

 

“You’re damn right I did,” Clint says, words hot on Steve’s lips. “I’m a sniper - all I did was sit on my ass and watch  _ yours _ for the last seven hours. Of course I thought about railing it a few times.”

 

“ _ Clint _ .”

 

“You gonna warn me about my language again,  _ sir _ ?” Clint teases, stepping out of his pants and- and either he wasn’t wearing briefs for the mission, which has happened before, or he managed to take them off at the same time as his pants.

 

Steve’s focus is understandably far, far away from any slights to polite company  _ or _ Clint’s teasing.

 

“And what if all I wanna do is rail  _ you _ ?” Steve asks.

 

“Then all you need to do is tell me how you want it and get out of your uniform. Actually,” Clint’s eyes are bright, “leave the uniform on.”

 

“How-”

 

But Clint shows Steve how, and, frankly, he shouldn’t have been surprised there was a way. Or that Clint had figured it out.

 

The man never did anything by halves, and that includes Steve Rogers.

  
  


 

**Author's Note:**

> The counting is a reference to a thing. If you have a guess, let me know in the comments!
> 
> If you guess correctly… I will write you a short - not one of my 11k nonsense “one shots” - one shot featuring an MCU character/pairing of your choice?


End file.
